Page 120 of Oh, Puck!
Shewilledthis into existence, and my body physically aches with how proud I am of her, and I can't even look at her without the whole building watching me do it.
I look up anyway.
All the way into the VIP box.
And thankfuckingChrist.
Josie made it. She'shere.
She's wearing a navy dress, her hair down, but her phone is clutched in both hands like a grenade with the pin already pulled. She's not watching warm-ups. She's watching her screen, probably reading the media ambush that's coming right for her.
I want to skate straight up those stairs, drag her out of that box by the hand, and kiss her senseless in front of every camera in this building.
Screw the secret. Screw the timing.
Josie was right all along. We should have come clean, because look where waiting got us.
But then, as I make another loop around the ice, I see the woman beside her.
Josie's mother is what Josie would look like if you drained all the warmth out and replaced it with a country club membership.
She's wearing a pale blazer and a necklace I can see from here. Her posture is like she's being graded on it, arms crossed stiffly so she can't move an inch out of place.
She's not watching the ice either.
She's examining her nails, radiating the boredom of a woman who has already decided that nothing here will impress her tonight. Fans are losing their minds all around her, screaming and yelling for this team, but Josie's mom looks like she's been waiting for a table at her favorite restaurant for too long.
At least she has no idea what's going on.
That's the thing that turns my stomach.
The scandal's been everywhere for eighteen hours now. Every sports feed, every gossip account on social media. But looking at her now, I'm fairly fucking sure that woman doesn't know what happened last night. Not a damn clue.
And worse, she probably doesn'tcarethat her daughters world is blowing up right in front of her eyes.
The puck drops.
I win the faceoff, and cycle the puck to Finn. He hits Beck's stick, but straight away, Beck forces a play that isn't there. He tries to split two Portland defensemen alone at our blue line, but it's angry and reckless. He's already playing like every shiftis a fight with me, and soon, the puck squirts loose, and Sawyer never has a chance.
The red goal light ignites, and within forty seconds, we're losing.
One-nothing Thunder.
The buzz around the arena dies instantly.
"Fuck," I breathe, moving back to center ice.
The loudest building in hockey has gone quiet.
"Beck!" I catch him at the bench. "Simple plays, man. Breathe through it."
"Fuck off. Don't coach me."
"I'm your captain—"
"Yeah," he says, snapping his mouth guard back in. "You're a lot of things."
He shoves past me and falls back into line. I shake my head and try to focus, but the whole first period is a car crash in slow motion.
